


permanently impermanent

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Parentlock, Scar reveal, Sherlock's scars, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by anon on Tumblr:okay so this is super obscure and I apologize but I have this headcanon where Rosie runs into Sherlock’s bedroom while he’s sleeping in the morning even though John tells her not to (because that’s what toddlers do best) and John has to run in to grab her so she doesn’t wake Sherlock up and that’s how John actually gets to properly see sherlock’s scars for the first time
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968538
Comments: 16
Kudos: 153





	permanently impermanent

No matter how many times John catches Rosie creeping past the kitchen, down the hall to the half-shut door at the end, he can’t seem to break her of the habit. She seems utterly obsessed with Sherlock at four-years-old. Chubby little legs working, she toddles around after him when Sherlock paces the flat in a fluster. Sits in his lap when he’s thinking in his chair or when he sprawls across the couch, sulking. She clutches his leg when Sherlock sways in front of the window with violin in hand, a blonde-haired little limpet.

Honestly, John would be more offended to be snubbed by his own daughter if he didn’t understand the allure. She is, after all, a Watson, and Watsons always follow Holmeses. Rosie comes by the habit honestly.

It’s just what Watsons do.

Because of Sherlock’s poor sleep habits, John tries to keep the flat quiet and calm whenever Sherlock drops. Since Eurus and Sherrinford, Sherlock sleeps more than he used to. He’s a little slower, a little softer around the edges, a little more willing to listen to John’s stern advice. But, still, his sleeping could be more regular. The times when Sherlock falls asleep on the couch are nigh impossible to preserve, and Rosie always sneaks up and buries her little hands in Sherlock’s hair, inevitably waking him every time. Whenever Sherlock makes it to his bed for sleep, John runs interference as long as he can.

Today is a particularly trying day because John has a case to type up and paperwork to finish. If that isn’t enough to handle, he also has a raucous toddler who seems deadset on bouncing between loudly banging blocks against the floor or running full-tilt down the hall in a targeted assault upon Sherlock’s room.

“Maybe you could take after me a _little_ less today,” John mutters after catching his daughter around the waist and hauling her back to the sitting room for what feels like the seventh time in an hour. Her stubbornness would be admirable if John weren’t the one corralling her in every few minutes.

“Daddy!” Rosie wails, squirming in his grip with a pout on her face sulky enough to rival Sherlock himself, “Sucks! You suck!”

Heaving a sigh, John struggles to keep his hold on the twisting toddler. “Oh, Sherlock and I will definitely be having a conversation about your vocabulary because I sure didn’t teach you that.”

“Auntie said Daddy sucks,” Rosie retorts, and John sighs again.

“Fantastic. Can’t wait to have _that_ phone call with Harry.”

Setting his angry daughter on the sofa with the Union Jack pillow and the stuffed bumblebee Sherlock bought for her third birthday, John retrieves his laptop and settles beside her. Almost instantly, Rosie tries to wriggle down off the couch, and John catches her under the arms, nearly knocking the computer onto the floor.

“Rosamund, enough!” he says sharply, planting her down on his knee and juggling the laptop to the side. She stares up at him with narrowed eyes and her bottom lip pushed out.

“Want Sh’lock,” she shoots back, unable to capture the full sound of his name.

John settles her more firmly and taps a finger to her forehead. “I know you want to see him, but Sherlock is tired, and we have to let him sleep.”

The expression on Rosie’s face is mutinous, and John feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him when she tries to worm away again.

“That’s enough.” Standing, John carries her over to Sherlock’s chair, wraps her in the red robe draped over the headrest, and squats down until they are eye-to-eye. “If you wake Sherlock, I will be very cross, Rosie. Do you understand?”

She stares back at him with a sombre expression, wiggling deeper into Sherlock’s robe. “Daddy sucks,” she says in a soft, petulant voice, and John stands with an eye roll.

“Fine, sure, I suck,” he mutters, giving in on the language for now. “Just let Sherlock sleep.” Retreating to the couch, pleased to see his daughter sitting still and seemingly appeased by the offer of Sherlock’s robe, John picks up the laptop again. He loses himself in his work, relaxing as the warmth of the sitting room seeps into his body.

When he jerks upright moments later, blinking out of a light doze, John frowns. Across from him, Sherlock’s chair is empty, the housecoat discarded on the floor in a wrinkled pile that can’t be doing anything good for the expensive material.

Standing, John stretches and picks the robe up off the floor, smoothing it flat over the back of the chair. He glances around the room, doesn’t see his daughter, and frowns again.

“Rosie?” John turns toward the kitchen as if there’s any chance she’s not already halfway down the hallway. Crossing the room, John pokes his head out into the hall just in time to catch Rosie disappearing through Sherlock’s open bedroom door. “Sod it all,” he mutters, hurrying forward as quietly as possible, hoping Sherlock is still asleep.

Peeking into the bedroom shreds John’s hopes. Already crawled up onto the bed, Rosie is climbing over Sherlock’s hips, where he lies sideways under the covers. Sherlock jolts awake and moves to sit up before realizing his attacker is a toddler. Frowning, he settles back against the headboard, drawing the errant child into his pyjama-clad lap.

“Hello, Watson,” he says in a sleep-roughened voice. Rosie shouts a string of happy words at him, too fast to catch, and grabs a handful of Sherlock’s hair before curling up on his thighs.

“Rosie, I told you not to—” John begins before he pauses, the rest of the words dying in his throat when the blankets slip down, revealing Sherlock’s bare upper body.

Sherlock’s eyes dart to John’s face, but John’s gaze is lower, fastened on Sherlock’s back, and the latticework of scars standing out vividly on his skin. The longer John stares, the more his confusion builds until he is frowning and perplexed, trying to pinpoint how old the marks are.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, but John just shakes his head, wordless, and keeps up the calculations in his head.

The scars are numerous. Some are long, jagged lines crisscrossing Sherlock’s otherwise pale skin, while others are round and puckered. Others are thin, some thick, some ropey, some turned silver from healing and time. None of them are new, but all of them are awful, and John shakes his head slowly, numb with shock. He finally lifts his eyes to Sherlock’s, who is sitting up with Rosie curled in his lap, her face pressed into his stomach and fast asleep. John’s brief flicker of ironic annoyance at his stubborn daughter flares and fades in the time it takes Sherlock’s throat to bob with a hard swallow.

“John,” Sherlock says again, accidentally talking over John when John speaks.

“How did—”

They both fall silent, locked in a staredown that neither seems willing to break. When John breathes in a low sigh and finally speaks, he sees Sherlock brace himself, tiny wrinkles appearing at the corners of his anxious eyes.

“When?”

Sherlock’s gaze darts away, and he smoothes Rosie’s blonde curls away from her forehead with an unsteady hand. “A long time ago,” he says, without really saying anything. John’s eyes narrow at the careful lack of information.

“What happened?”

Still looking away, his eyes on the wall, Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “I was injured.”

John’s jaw tenses, and he shifts a little closer to the bed. He sees Sherlock stiffen slightly and pauses before sinking onto the edge of the mattress. Sherlock’s eyes remain locked on the wall, avoiding John’s solemn gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says slowly, watching Sherlock’s stony expression in profile. “But you can, you know?” Tilting his head, John tries to catch Sherlock’s attention and fails. Quiet falls between them until John carefully reaches out and drifts a finger over one of the longer scars. It is thick and raised, the edges jagged, the unmistakable mark of a serrated blade. “Does it still hurt?”

Sherlock twitches and shivers, his skin rippling under John’s featherlight touch. His head turns slightly toward John, a flash of surprise on his face. “Sometimes,” he admits, not quite looking at John. “Not so much anymore. But sometimes.”

Nodding, John folds his hands in his lap and drops his eyes to his laced fingers. “I’m glad.” He frowns before glancing at Sherlock, who is finally looking back at him. His expression is wary and impossible to read, but his eyes betray his vulnerability, and John chooses his next words with care. “I’m sorry for whatever happened, and I hope you know that I won’t let anyone hurt you.” His face flushes with the intensity of his own words, and John drops his eyes back to his hands, throat tightening. His mind flashes to Mary, to his own fury that put Sherlock on the floor of a serial killer’s ‘favourite room.’ “Not again, not anymore.”

From the edge of his vision, John catches Sherlock’s stunned expression. Unable to meet his eyes, John waits and holds his breath, finally letting it out in a grateful rush when Sherlock nods.

“Yes. Um. Thank you.” Sherlock sounds mildly flustered and busies himself with plucking at a loose thread in the sheets. “I… will do the same.” He looks at John’s daughter in his lap as Rosie squirms and resettles against his hip, mouth open and face perfectly blank in sleep. “For both of you,” he adds softly. Watching Rosie, John smiles before looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes again. They stare at one another, the tenuous connection holding, strengthening into something that feels almost tangible.

“Great,” John replies, catching the slight softening of Sherlock’s face. “I’m glad.”

**Author's Note:**

> I made a second Tumblr prompted fic series because the tags on the other one were getting rather long.


End file.
